


A Knife Making Love To A Wound (The Sweet Scrape Of A Match Lighting The Lamp Of Her Mouth)

by Iamasortofvillain



Category: The Haunting of Bly Manor (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Eventual Happy Ending, F/F, Fluff and Angst, Happy Ending, Hurt/Comfort, Implied Sexual Content, Mild Sexual Content, POV Second Person, Sad with a Happy Ending, True Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-28
Updated: 2020-10-28
Packaged: 2021-03-09 05:54:59
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,066
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27249901
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Iamasortofvillain/pseuds/Iamasortofvillain
Summary: Sometimes she whispers to you and it runs like spilled blood along the floor.A monster, once named Viola, now calls herself The Lady in The Lake, found herself a new home.A gardener with soft eyes and steady hands is your home.You are happy to be this lucky, to be this damned.OR:If Dani and Jamie had a chance of a miracle, they'd do it all the same
Relationships: Dani Clayton/Jamie
Comments: 12
Kudos: 131





	A Knife Making Love To A Wound (The Sweet Scrape Of A Match Lighting The Lamp Of Her Mouth)

**Author's Note:**

> She bites, cleaving away a red wing.  
> The red bird sings  
> Yes
> 
> //
> 
> They took over my life. I write fanfics about my obsessions.

You twist in your seat, trying to get comfortable. There's not much of a chance for that, giving the circumstances. It's like being blown by a vicious but mindless wind, like being watched from the shadows, and there is no way out.

(And you are, being watched from the shadows. The unseeing eyes and the washed off face are as jarring and as scary and as unnerving as if the thing that is watching you had full features. More, if you're being honest).

You feel lonely. It's the kind of lonely you feel standing alone in a crowd, with everyone laughing and cheering around you. Lonelier with comparison. From now on, you will never be fully alone, and it only makes you feel more isolated.

You feel pursued by bad luck, as if bad luck is a feral dog, lurking along behind you, but you know it's not luck you're scared of, but the faceless demon inside you, following your scent, lying in wait around the corner.

(You feel her peering out from under the dark bushes of your mind, peering to fix you with her evil unseeing gaze).

You feel followed. You feel alone. The eternal darkness inside you makes you feel like you're lost in a thick forest, in wild jungle, surrounded but with no ally to come to your rescue.

Only, you're not alone. A girl is sitting next to you, easy and humming and smelling faintly of earth and grass, of fabric forgotten in the sun, of sweet herbs. She has one wrist draped casually over the steering wheel, a crooked smile on her face and she's fixing you with confident bright eyes.

"Alright, Poppins?" She says and you nod.

You nod and nod and nod, because you can't contain the smile that's spreading on your lips, nor the weight lifting off of your chest. The haunting cold presence melts away at her closeness and there is only you and Jamie; smiling, laughing, confident Jamie.

(Jamie, with her functional clothes and messy hair and scrappy, rough-around-the-edges attitude. Jamie, with her dark, soft, purring presence, with her wild impulses and steady hands and brave words).

The choking voice in your head, yammering and sad, is gone. The creeping footsteps crushing all rational thought, every happy memory, is fading and you're smiling wide at Jamie, in the green countryside, at the pretty wet picture in front of you.

You don't let your hammering heart drag you into thinking about tomorrow. You don't even allow yourself to think about the next step. You just take a big breath and let the future unfold, minute by minute.

You don't wish for anything else, just the slow unfolding of the mysterious force of time passing.

(To wish for any more would be pushing it, and you don't feel like pushing more than is absolutely necessary).

"I'm okay," you say, choked and high-pitched and way too cheerful.

"Yeah?" Jamie is still smiling and her smile splitting her face and she looks happy. Happy and content and golden, sunlight all over her. She looks young and untouched and eager and your heart goes off, hammering against your ribcage to the point it aches.

(When did you get this lucky? It's all too unfair, the way your story has to end).

There is sunshine on her hair, shining in her eyes, soaking in her skin and for a moment, England is bathing in rare yellow and Jamie is a shining goddess in denim and boots. A modern time Aphrodite.

"Yeah." You say and you didn't think she could look any happier, but she does.

//

Jamie is driving and you are peering out of all the windows at once. You sit upright, cuddled in your coat, your shoulders are straight. The trees glide past. You're nervous and jittery, even though you don't have a reason to be.

The drive goes on for hours, in a warm sun, and then in a steady drizzle. The weather is miserable but the company is uplifting and the open countryside is beautiful. You can't stop smiling while listening to Jamie ramble on, chewing on words, twisting vowels, bitting off on the P's and the T's and the codas with an accent you start to think of as home.

You sit in the car among the suitcases and the backpacks and cardboard boxes and coats. There is a faint dry-cleaning smell, though both you and Jamie sit in the front sits and she smells like wood and pencils and wet sand.

When you look at Jamie you have a clear view of her ear, soft-looking and sticking from her curly brown hair. They are round and beautiful and you can hardly resist leaning in and whisper to her.

You don't know what you'd say if you could, but you can't because it will disturb her and even though the roads are mostly empty, you want her stare to stay fixed on the horizon.

She's talking and there is a truck loaded with cut tree trunks and you must have dozed off because you wake up, startled, and Jamie laughs softly at your disoriented ramble.

You stop at a gathering of houses and wood cubicles. You stretch like a cat in your sit and cuddle back into your big coat, while Jamie goes for a supply run. You offer to help, but Jamie has a skeptical expression on her beautiful face and you smile in apology and stay inside the van.

You eat in the car, bread and sardines and cheese and you drink very sweet tea and watch the world getting darker.

It's late afternoon and the mellow sunlight that breaks through the clouds light everything in a golden glow.

When it gets to the end of the day you stop at a gas station and your limbs are stiff and hurting.

"You want me to drive?" you ask when Jamie climbs out, shaking her legs and rolling her shoulders.

She scoffs, crooked smile tugging at her lips. She makes a teasing remark and your lips quiver.

She's very very cute.

"Stay put, Poppins. Don't want you getting lost in this goddamn country".

"I wanna help".

She takes your hand and squeezes your fingers. "I've got it, Poppins".

When Jamie climbs back to the van, she hands you a cold bottle of diet coke and smiles her lopsided smile, eyes glimmering.

"Here," she says. "you can have it because you have zero appreciation for the good stuff".

You squeeze her arm and she squeezes your hand right back.

It's easy.

Like home.

//

"Did you really mean it," Jamie says and her voice is raising at the end of the sentence, like a question but not quite.

"What?"

"The states?" and you know what she's asking.

You smile, chewing absentmindedly on the inside of your cheek. You shrug a small shrug, giving her an opportunity to abject.

"It can be an adventure." She says and it's settled at that.

//

You feel a small prickle at the back of your neck and the flight attendant smiles a welcoming smile, open, inclusive, safe smile of a born saleswoman.

The plane is packed with people and it smells like unwashed bodies and old sweat and leather. Underneath the human stench, there is the lingering smell of cigarette smoke and wine, which you don't find repulsing.

You're spinning out of control, Jamie pressed hot against your side, squirming in her seat.

"Never been on a plane before." She says, gripping her seat nervously, trying to pretend she's brave and unhinged.

"It's okay," you say brightly. "It was my first time, too, when I came to England." And you smile your most reassuring smile.

You look at her when the plane starts to shake. She calls you, not by your name but by the pet name you can't seem to shake off. You don't even think about it now. It's part of you when she is around.

"It's perfectly safe." You say and then you say it again when the plane takes off and again when you're allowed to unfasten your seatbelts.

"Poppins, you should get some sleep," she says and though her voice is low as to not startle the grey-suited man with the square-glasses next to you, her voice is also raspy and dripping with sex and you don't know how she manages it, but it's working.

You make a strangled noise at the back of your throat. How can she say something so sweet and make it sound so dirty?

You try to contain your smile as you shake your head, a disapproving yet loving motion.

It's been days since you touched her and now the need rises in you like a tide, dangerous and frustrating and hot and Jamie looks at you like she knows exactly how you feel.

You remember your first time vividly. You barely managed to get back to the house from the garden, reeling with lust, cold and wet, and shivering. She didn't bother with the lock, just threw herself at you once you were safe inside your room. You threw yourself right at her arms just as passionately, still a little cold and still a little shakey and still with tears in your eyes. You pressed yourself into her arms, pressed her against you, opened your mouth. Jamie took your clothes off with steady hands and too much smiling for proper kissing (you pawed aimlessly at her belt buckle) and pulled you down onto your bed, kissing wet hot kisses at your mouth, down your throat, between your breasts.

You remember the feeling of having her body pressed against you, and you want to kiss her now just as bad.

The monster in your chest (in your lungs, in your head) is a white raging noise and you find it almost easy to tune her out. She's a shapeless shape emerging from greyish and glimmering and insubstantial darkness. She's a silhouette, a shadow, outlined against a hateful lake, a black patch against a blacker patch of water.

Jamie is looking at you with intense bright eyes and you're not touching but already your heart is beating faster. She's a fire in the dark, she's flickering and indistinct at first, but then she's all you can see, sharp features and a sure expression and you're not alone anymore.

It's you, with your heartbeat and your too-loud breathing and your monster.

It's her, with her easy smile and her stubborn bluntness and her teasing words.

It's perfect.

You take a deep breath and smile your sunniest smile at her because she deserves a light and she deserves a smile and she deserves happiness.

(She smiles back and it seems like you don't need much more than that to communicate).

The plane lowers from between the clouds and you can see lights, a city, a place you once considered a home and your ears hurt and Jamie's fingers are warm in your palm and you think

(This is better. This is much better).

//

You stay in a small motel for the first couple of days.

The room is dim, there are dead flies, the lights don't work properly, nor the water; the walls had been cracked and stained what seems like years ago, but none of it matters because you don't notice those kinds of details.

(It's a kind you are used to. A row of cottages flimsily built, strung together, and decorated with Christmas lights. There is an office cottage and linoleum floor and faded floral patterns).

You have eyes only for Jamie, even when she makes a face, scoffing and huffing and chewing on her lower lip.

"Nice start," she says with twisted lips and you hug her waist and say cheerfully that you should eat something.

The diner is a long room with sitting places and a counter and a respectable-looking employees that offer to refill your cups and extra napkins and sweet pet names that are way too familiar (to them you are 'honey' or 'sweetheart' and Jamie raises an eyebrow). A layer of permanent grease coats everything and the air smells of rancid fat and burned oil and crispy chicken wings.

You eat a sandwich with cucumbers on top and Jamie munches happily on greasy chips with ketchup spread on top of them and some customers make a background noise, passing around you, ordering more coffee or more pancakes or more paper towels from the lady behind the counter.

The food isn't great but it's good enough and Jamie spreads a map in front of her and makes plans.

"If we keep driving north, it looks pretty rural," she has her eyes fixed on the map and you have your eyes fixed on her. You smile at how serious she looks. When she isn't staring at you, you allow yourself to melt a little.

"Hmm." You try to sound enthusiastic.

"Snow could be nice." And it could. It can.

You look at yourself in the mirror behind the counter. You look good, not too tired and in good shape, despite the restless nights and the long smoke-choked flight and the constant scratch of foreign presence in your bones. You look good, like any young woman entering a new era.

(Nothing in your face indicated receding darkness. Nothing is forming, your hair is blonde and marvelous and clean, your eyes shine, your skin is clear. The dark purple and the thick red and the sad rich colours in you are ripples in the pond of your soul, but it does not reflect. The darkness and the shadows and you can tell something is wrong, but it's wrong like a distant memory).

Jamie looks fresh and soft, in her warm brown sweater and she's talking talking talking and it makes your head spin.

Being close to Jamie does that to you. You feel light-headed and happy, and even though you make a point of reminding her just how fragile your situation is, you melt when you meet her bright eyes.

You hate doing this, but hope is dangerous and you must.

"I don't think… that we should – plan Christmas, I mean".

She nods, so gentle and caring it pains you to say anything at all.

"It's alright," she reassures you when you start to ramble and hyperventilate. "One day at a time is fine by me." And you nod, thankful and breathless and in love.

(You let her smell, the flowers and the wet earth and the green leaves, rich and mesmerizing, infuse you with grief).

//

Your house is a starter two-bedroom in need of a little love. It's affordable and cute and homey and right above a small shop that has just been closed. It's the upper storey of a red brick semi-detached house above a new vacant shop that Jamie has her eye on and it's small but it's on a main street and it's a good place.

(There are a lot of people here. There are older unmarried women and young widows and boys with mustaches that remind you of Owen. Some are wearing colourful sweaters and tight jeans and they smile at Jamie but first, they smile at you).

(You know why. People mistake you for a flower. They mistake you for a doll. They are nice but it's a stinging feeling. You're not an empty-headed barbie-doll. You're not a delicate thing to keep safe. You have darkness inside of you that they don't seem to notice).

You wear tights underneath miniskirts and boots and fluffy sweaters. You wear ankle-length coats and you keep your hair down, woven into moderate flowing curl. Jamie wears jeans and sneakers and all sorts of overalls. She looks deliciously English, but not foreign.

(You can't take your eyes off of her).

Your first night there together isn't quick and isn't dirty and isn't easily won. You're slow; glances, a brush of hands. Jamie is gentle and loving and seeking your consent, and even panting, gasping, hot with want, and need, she gives you room to say no, to breathe, to choose.

(You choose her).

You get a sofa and a bed and a TV and Jamie produces more and more plants until every corner of your apartment is packed with blooming green that you're scared you will kill as soon as you lay a finger on it.

"Plants are resilient even to the best of efforts," Jamie says, laughing.

"I'm really bad with this… and- and now… I – "

"Hey, Poppins. Breathe," and you do. Jamie rubs her palms against your arms, working warmth, and courage into you. "It's okay. I don't need you to help me with it. You can just enjoy the view".

After dark, Jamie's eyes glint and you take a deep breath to calm your nerves (calm your quickening pulse. Calm your raising panic) and you put your arms around her and put your nose on the crook of her neck and breathe a small "okay" into her skin and it's worth to hear her husky voice breaking into a hoarse laugh.

Jamie is steady, dependable, strong. You want to be as steady and as strong as her, although you have doubts that you can ever manage that. You're braver than you thought, but you get startled easily and you tell yourself to toughen up. Show some grit. Don't be a drag.

"What about this play?" Jamie hands you a pamphlet and you want to indulge her excitement about theater, but you feel sick.

"Poppins? What is it?"

"It's..." your voice is shaking and your throat is clogged and you hate to do that to her. "It's next month".

And there is the knowing raise of eyebrows and the sad relief and something in Jamie's eyes shift. It doesn't flicker out or change, just shift with realization, and with something you hope is not pity.

"One day at a time." She says, soft and reassuring and oh so lovingly.

"I'm so sorry," you whisper, hanging your head low.

"For what?" She chuckles and when you don't laugh she drops the folded paper and leaps across the room toward you and puts her arms gently around you.

"Hey," she says, trying to catch your eye. "Hey, Poppins. S'alright. Look at me. It's alright".

"Jamie..." it's a small, tired sigh and Jamie creases her forehead and raises her eyebrows and catches your eye, and you smile a watery kind of smile and shake your head.

"Okay," you say and try to sound more confident than you feel. "Okay," you say, cheerful and high pitched and not at all like you meant for it to sound. "I'm okay!"

It's no wonder she doesn't really believe you.

//

It’s a beautiful cloudless day, not too hot for the first of August. You find the summer days almost festive: when it’s not raining, the streets are full of people, smiling, greeting one another, some walking, some on their coloured bikes of scooters or tin cars, the odd ones on foot, like you.

Now and then one of the painted police cars glides through the streets but it's almost always peaceful.

Your building has a back door that leads to an alley and kids (or gangs or crazies) leave their marks on the walls. There are scrawled tags and vicious drawings and they don't trigger you. There are short hard dirty words, written in spray paint. There are markers and old broken lipstick and something brown and crusted that doesn't even smell bad anymore.

You feel at ease in your new place. There are no bathtub rings, no orphaned socks, no ends of soap or wispy gatherings of shed hair on the floor, like in the motels you had to stay in. It isn't spotless. There are hairs and there are toast crumbs and there are smudges, but it's you and Jamie and you can't bring yourself to care.

When you move furniture and buy a new bed, Jamie picks you up, pushes her hands up under your skirt. She smells like sunshine and paint and fresh dirt and the next minute you're pressed against the new mattress and you are both laughing with delight.

"Wait!" You squeal and gasp with pleasure. You have a nervous way of babbling at the most inappropriate moments but you shut up now, because Jamie has an evil glint in her eyes, a playful one, and you think you know what it means.

"I can't wait, Poppins!" It's only half a joke. It's true and because you can't really wait either, you give in. "Why should I wait?" and she's shaking her head 'no'.

"Okay," you want to say something else but you don't need words you are swept away, drugged with desire and Jamie and Jamie and Jamie.

Jamie's like a fresh wind. Like thunderstorm. You moan helplessly. Before you met her (before you went to bed with her) you've never known about such a force, such an energy inside yourself. You thought it was only in books or TV shows (or for other people).

Jamie smiles into the kiss when you let another gasp.

(The beast is a distant memory. Nothing but a spooky nightmare).

//

You always had to make your own way. Since your father died, when you were very small. It had been thin ice with the cracks showing and disaster always waiting just beneath you. Your trick was to keep gliding. Alone at first, and then with Eddie.

You loved him. He was solid ground under your feet, a non-reflective surface (a thing you appreciate now). He was movies with neat endings and candle-lit restaurants and ironed shirts. His family was warm and loving and welcoming and everything strange and bizarre and different. When you got together you thought it would be (if not perfect) at least comfortable and if it wasn't what made your heart flutter, well... you told yourself you can live with it.

But there were depths, as it turned out. There were other duties not mentioned to you at first, a certain amount of untidiness, navigation to be done. And you never enjoyed it.

Jamie has changed that.

Your sweater's on the floor, your hair's a mess and you are kissing, Jamie's hands are under your freshly ironed skirt, fingers teasing and searching and tickling.

Jamie makes you feel like you're standing on the edge of the cliff, dizzy and scared, knowing that once you leap into the air, she will be there to catch you.

A scratch at the back of your head spikes and then subdues. A roar of anger, a spark of hate, and nothing can touch the beacon of light that is Jamie. The monster is trying and trying and trying, screaming hate into your ear, but Jamie whispers love and it's so much stronger.

(Inside the non-house, inside the nothing space, a space that doesn't exist, between two forces of a woman and a monster without a name, a war erupts).

(Already you know who will win, but you can't think about it, so you push the beast back).

Jamie has her hands on your inner thigh and you stop thinking.

//

"A flower-shop." Jamie dreams out loud.

"Seriously?"

"Yeah," she shrugs like it means nothing but you know she's almost bouncing with excitement. "I will call it 'The Leafing'".

You laugh with her.

You want her to have it.

//

Your nights are grimy and morose with the air being sucked out of your chest by the sense of the lurking presence of the monster, that's spreading everywhere like a fog.

You can almost feel her on your fingertips; the yielding, the rubberiness, the humid jungle heat.

Your body is a separate thing and you bite on your fingers to feel physical pain, to remind yourself you're still you. you're still this body. You try to remind yourself that you're attached to yourself, to the daily life. Your body hasn't betrayed you. you did what you had to do and if it ticks away like a clock, time is inside of it, you can't be disgusted with it.

You can't feed the monster.

In the morning you get up, feeling as if you haven't slept. You riffle through the tea-bags and Jamie swats your hands away, making teasingly pleasant jokes.

She purrs you a cup of tea and you sip happily on the hot beverage, thinking about the thick, jolting, poisonous coffee you used to drink before you moved the England.

You sit at the table and Jamie slumps down on the chair closest to you.

"What's going on here, then?" Is her way of asking and you tell her about the dreams and let her reassure you with soft hands and hard fingers and stern looks and loving kisses.

The period of dreams and scratching sensations doesn't last long and as the weeks progress and the days turn, the beast quiets down and you almost forget she's there.

(Almost, but not quite).

The violence is there, lurking in the shadows and you make a point of ignoring it.

You find that most of the time, the monster in your chest is quieter when you're around Jamie or doing something that occupies your mind, so you start reading more, watching old movies, trying to cook.

You're not a bad cook, but you can't quite catch to the housework. Jamie teases you and you try to tease back, even though it's awkward and funny and you're not quite sure how to do that. It's a nice surprise to learn she isn't good at cleaning or cooking and it makes you feel real.

You started to chew your fingers again (to the point of drawing blood), on your way to the states, and you can still taste the blood (red licorice, gnawed hair, dirty ice).

You sit and drink your tea and bite on your fingers, looking down at the table, at the small flayers Jamie has brought home.

"Is it crazy..." you start nervously, all of a sudden, voice high and panicked, and Jamie gives a little jump. "To miss Bly? To miss the kids?"

"No," it's nothing more than a whisper and it hurts you, to hear her voice so small and pained and you have to remind yourself it was her life long before you got there.

"No".

"I miss it. I miss it all".

Jamie takes your hand. Her fingers are too hot, hot from the cup of tea she had her palms wrapped tightly about.

"Poppins," she says very slowly and you look at her. Her gaze is steady and warm and everything loving. Everything like home.

"I'm here. I'm not going anywhere, d'you hear me?"

"What if you get sick of me?" You say, very quietly and a sudden rush of sadness washes over you.

"No." She says, stubborn and sure.

"I don't want to drag you down. I don't want to be a weight around your neck. You can be free. You can do whatever you want".

"I am doing what I want!" Is her replay and she takes both your hands in hers and squeezes on your trembling fingers. "I'm right where I want to be".

You smile a watery kind of smile, tears stinging your eyes, and Jamie matches with a sad smile of her own.

"You can't get rid of me, Poppins," she says and it's half-amused and half-wild. "Get used to it".

You think there is nothing easier in the world than getting used to having her near you.

//

You stroll between the rows of shelves now, listening to the soothing clunks of the workers' tools, to the low hum of their voices, smelling the familiar ammonia scent of cleaning supplies and new flowers.

Jamie, golden and easy and with her trade-mark troublemaker's smile, is walking around the shop, eyes shining. She doesn't bother the workers, she's too hyped to care about the detail.

"It's gonna be huge!" She sing-songs and you beam at her, proud and excited and easy.

It's not too big and defunct and soon it will be converted to flowery heaven but for now, it's empty and Henry insisted on helping you out. You look around. It's dirty enough and you can't quite imagine how it will look, but Jamie can and you rather watch her jump up and down, bounce on her heals, than try to picture the future shop.

"What?" Jamie almost laughs when she catches you staring. "Do I have something on my face?"

You shake your head and laugh a small embarrassed (cheerful) laugh.

"No. I just like seeing you so happy".

"You're hopeless! Poppins, We gonna have a flower shop! A real proper flower shop!" And she rambles on and you let her.

Outside, it's late afternoon and the sun is low in the sky and the workers gather their tools and make their steady way to the exit.

The street is empty and quiet.

Jamie wraps her arms around your waist and draws you close. The lights are off and you are almost invisible inside the dark shop, so you allow yourself to put your arms around her neck, cup the back of her head and kiss her deeply.

"I really love you," you say and kiss her again.

"I love you, too." She answers and you kiss her.

"Someone's cheerful!" She remarks and you roll your eyes and laugh and you kiss her.

//

Jamie has a habit of waking up early, though she groans and moans and sighs through the whole thing, she rises up and brushes her teeth and puts her shirt on, and proceeds to make some type of easy breakfast.

You're used to sleeping like the dead at least till after eight o'clock, but lately, your dreams are a jumble of dark shadows and cold water and empty four-post beds and you jolt up, happy to be done with the night, eager for the new day.

You fix up some coffee and Jamie makes a face and puts the kettle on and it's almost time for you to open the flower shop but she's still wearing her pajama shirt and underwear and she's nowhere near being ready.

"The new outfit concept is really nice," you say brightly and try not to laugh around your toast.

Jamie's head shots up. She follows your gaze and glances down at herself and the grumpy expression on her face darkens. A loud (guttural) moan escapes her lips and she throws her head back and stomps to your shared bedroom.

"Only because you seem to be the jealous type, Poppins!" She calls from the room and you laugh and laugh and laugh.

"For fuck's sake! I can't find my trousers!"

Something spikes in you, and even though your muscles are still a little sore from last night, you put on a very wide smile and follow her.

(You end up being late for the opening).

//

"Is that a moonflower?"

"Yeah".

"They are very rare, you know." Your nervous attempt at joking doesn't lighten the mood. Jamie shifts her weight from one foot to the other and there is a very strange, very concerned expression on her tanned face.

"You see, Poppins. I'm not sick of you. At all. I'm actually pretty in love with you, it turns out".

And it's not a happy ever after, but it's close enough and you kiss her in the middle of the shop, the sun shining through the huge windows.  


//

Jamie hugs you good warm hugs. She clutches you against her like a child clutches a stuffed animal. You hug her the same and the thought of letting her go sadness you more than anything.

You dream of falling, from a cliff or into a large body of water, against a background of twilight, arms outspread, skirt open like a bell. You never hit the ground but the darkness engulfs you anyway, as you fall and fall and fall and you wake up gasping for air, clutching at your throat, the gravity cut from under you.

"Hey, hey. Poppins. It's alright. Come here. It's okay." Jamie is always there, smelling faintly of flowers and earth and mango deodorant, her hair all tangled and her brows creased.

Worried. She's so worried.

"Yeah," you gasp, gulping air. "Yeah, I'm - I'm alright".

You don't always dream bad dreams. As the days progress, you wake up with vague memories of distant dreams, and you are relieved. The emptiness is better than the horror and you wake Jamie up with warm hands and curiosity and want you can't subdue.

In the mornings you smile and smile and smile as you pile up dishes in the sink and throw away leftovers and do the laundry. You don't like doing it and you're not particularly good at it, but it keeps you busy.

Neither one of you is a model of tidiness or efficiency when it comes to housework, but Jamie has magical hands and she makes it all work.

It seems like everything she touches opens itself to her. She mends clothes and makes bouquets and repairs furniture and hammers at walls. You are too self-conscious and clumsy to be good at anything like that and you do your best in the kitchen, out of duty most of the time, and you are delighted to find out Jamie is more than happy to stay clear of the kitchen.

On Sundays, you sleep late, go for walks, hold hands. You make love almost every night and you hold her close, enjoying her solid warm presence while you can.

//

It's been more than a year and you like being busy but in the afternoons there's not much to be busy about and you wipe the counter and rearrange vases and check the books and prepare orders, the bouquets Jamie makes with such good care are all beautiful and fresh and ready in their pots, wrapped in papers and have small cards attached to them.

You avoid large bodies of water and you avoid mirrors and you avoid looking at yourself too much.

You stretch out on your big bed, and Jamie cuddles at your side, head's heavy and comforting on your shoulder. You are watching a movie, something old but colourful, and you fall into a comfortable sleep, with that safe, cozy feeling you have when Jamie is pressed hot and solid into you.

You dream about drowning hands in deep holes. The hand goes through the black hole and there is water, with blind fish and other things, things with dark teeth and blank faces and visible bones, and they get out and you run.

It's rare and far in between, now. But the dreams still manage to rile you up.

You wake up and it's still early evening. Jamie is reading a book by your side, humming a tune you don't recognize. The room smells like old cigarette smoke and rubber, like the worn intimacy of cloth too long against flesh and on top of that, an overlay of Jamie, seeping in from every corner.

You inhale deeply.

There’s an old-fashioned tune playing in the background, soft and far away, as if from another dimension. White sheets, a plush carpet, and Jamie - happy, solid, everlasting Jamie.

The shadows grow thick and wild around you, so you cuddle into her.

"Can't sleep?" She asks, distracted but concerned, always focused on you. her fingers tangle in the soft hair behind your ear and you hum.

"Not so much," you admit.

"Want to tell me what's bugging you?"

You want to. You want to tell her that you can't stop seeing your monster in the jungle. Can't stop seeing her in pools, in dishes washed to gleaming, in car doors fresh from a spring polish. You want to tell her you see her everywhere.

“Jamie,” you say, and it’s like ice down your back. It's ragged desperation, a lost girl cracking open from your somber self, and Jamie is there, gripping you with hard fingers, certain and solid and there.

"Dani," she says your name and it's always serious. Always strong. "I'm here. I'll keep you safe." And it's not that you need her reassuring you, but it melts your heart when she does and a smile spreads on your troubled face, washing off concern and fright and pain.

Jamie smiles back, eyes shining with unspilled tears.

Her hand is on your waist and it's familiar there. It's a gesture of desire (of fatigue).

You throw yourself into her arms and you don't make love tonight, you just press together, lying in your big bed, hugging and caressing, breathing each other in.

When morning comes, you undress each other, more shyly than ever. It's not awkward, it's sweet. Her hands slide on the backs of your thigs. Your fingers press to the soft hollowness of her flat stomach.

You kiss with gravity you haven't quite felt before and your love for her blooms in your chest to every touch and every caress and every push.

You have a rhythm of relief and greetiness and understanding.

You lie together under the covers, arms around each other. It's hard to remember your dreams when the sun is shining through the curtains, bathing the bed in white promising light.

You turn, lean on your elbow, kiss Jamie on the cheek, on the corner of her lips, on her forehead. You kiss her ear, the hair down low.

She makes a gasping sound and you smile into her skin.

//

One day, when nothing has changed, nothing has been done or happened that is any different from usual, you discover that you almost forgot about your private monster.

It's been over five, six, seven years, and you count and recount, wait another day than another, listening carefully, seeking her reflection. You listen to the inside of your body.

You go home early, leaving Jamie to deal with the closing of the flower shop. You lie down on the floor, your body numb and stiff with fear, you can almost feel the centre of nothingness the beast used to occupy. There is a black square in your chest, a sort of disorienting feeling, a total emptiness.

You explore is slowly, fearing it might mean the end, and you launch yourself into the cold burning void of space.

An hour goes by. Two hours. Three.

Nothing has changed, and yet, nothing is the same.

You get up, turn on the lights, make yourself a cup of coffee. You drink it at the kitchen table, shivering with cold, waiting for the inevitable.

//

In the day time, you go to the shop, you come back, you eat with Jamie and laugh with Jamie and talk with Jamie and try not to betray the revolution inside of you.

You know she notices something's wrong, but she doesn't ask. Her troubled beautiful eyes are fixed on you and you do your best to dismiss her concern.

It's nothing to do with not wanting to share and everything with keeping her safe. You are tired of being her source of pain. You want to bring her happiness.

You want to tell her good news, for a change.

(You need to be sure, before making declarations).

You're sick of putting your weight on her. Sick of being weak and scared and gutted like a fish.

You cling to her and she clings to you and when she finally snaps, one evening tears running down her cheeks and a sort of panic rises on her face, you tell her.

Jamie isn't big on the dramatics, so it hurts you more. It hurts like a knife wielded right into your heart.

(You tell her because you can't bear seeing her like that).

Her tears keep washing her face, different tears now, and you're crying as well.

She takes your face in her palms, kisses you deeply.

"I'm scared, Jamie. I'm scared that I'm wrong".

"One day at a time," is her choked replay and you find out it suits you just fine. One day at a time as long as those days are with her.

The next day you buy a small ring and you hide it in a plant. It wasn't your original plan, but the plant looks sad and small and lonely, standing orphaned by a trash can, and your heart aches and aches and aches for the potential and for the loss and for the lack of effort.

You pick it up, slowly and carefully, like it's a small child, and you carry it home.

You know she will say 'yes' because you would have done the same, but it's still unnerving and scary and you fidget around, restless.

You go in and you stand there while Jamie complains about cooking, salting, and steering and huffing and you chew a little on a leaf before you realise what you're doing.

Your palms are sweaty and cold. Your heart is in your throat.

"What happened here, then?"

You can't face her so you turn your back and you keep your hands occupied.

"Dani, why is there a ring…?"

Cold shoots up your arms, into your stomach. You stand frozen, revealed to yourself, and to Jamie because this is the moment. This is what you wanted (what you needed) to do for a long time, now.

"You're my best friend. And the love of my life," you tell her. "And it's enough for me if it's enough for you".

She's laughing and crying and laughing. "I reckon it's enough for me." She says and she's still a little panicked and a little confused and very much excited and you're so in love with her you can hardly force any more words.

She draws you to her and kisses you, her hands caressing the back of your head. She's kissing you like never before, foreign and dangerous and potentially degrading but very sweet and very much like her.

There are no-nonsense with the both of you. There never were. There is no fooling around.

She kisses you and you kiss her back.

//

"I love you," you whisper in her ear. Her fingers are tightening in your hair, her mouth is hot against your cheek and you press your nose into her neck, kiss her bared collarbones.

"I love you too." She's almost sobbing, lips gliding on your skin, searching for your mouth.

You feel white, drained of blood. You feel cared for.

You feel purified.

You feel free.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading.  
> If you feel like leaving a comment telling me what you think, please do it.
> 
> English is not my first language, and also i'm rocking ADHD like a MF so please excuse any and every misspellings, mistakes, and other Grammarly atrocities.  
> Also,  
> Come visit me @ love-jesus-but-i-drink-a-little.tumblr.com


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